


do primarchs dream of primal beasts?

by acosmic



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 06:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmic/pseuds/acosmic
Summary: Sandalphon meets Phoebe (awake) and Morphe (asleep) in the middle of the night.





	do primarchs dream of primal beasts?

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this back in march
> 
> there's a specific story i based part of this off but i forgot where you unlock it.. this doesn't really make much sense without that but...

If anyone asked why Sandalphon was not sleeping, he would perhaps laugh in their face for having the gall to ask or not say anything all or fire back, “Why are _you_?"but no one would ask, which was for all the better in case the façade slipped and they’d behold the primarch afraid of his own dreams.

It wasn’t like there was no one else keeping odd hours, on occasion or on a basis; the thing was that the majority kept to their rooms, but Sandalphon can’t stand the space, even more of a cage than that illusory garden.

So he wanders the Grancypher, taking note of: the loose floorboards, the decks that others congregate to for card games or gossiping, the shifting constellations that he never bothered to learn the names of.

He finds that dreamt boy curled up on the floor of some lower passageway with Phoebe crouched over him, her face placid as she pokes his cheek.

Well. He’s not dealing with that.

The clicking of his damn heels on the wood cause Phoebe to look at him mid-turn. She slowly blinks and then motions for Sandalphon to carry Morphe, and he obliges—because she might be able to make his dreams worse—but instead of being led to their room, he’s forced to follow her to the mess.

Sandalphon unceremoniously dumps Morphe on a bench. _Children are resilient_ , he remembers being told of this fact a long time ago, when everything in the sky was new to Him and newer to Sandalphon.

“Wait here,” Phoebe tells Sandalphon and leaves with a pause at the entry, fingers lingering on door frame, her watching Sandalphon watch her. She waves, a _bye-bye for now_. Sandalphon does not wave back.

Instead he takes the opportunity to really look at Morphe: the wispy and pale hair spilling out from underneath the silly-looking hat, an unaging face, a created companion. The last of which you can't tell from his appearance, but Sandalphon knows and Phoebe knows and, most importantly, Morphe knows.

Sandalphon closes his eyes. Morphe snores on serenely.

“Oh… You’re still here.”

He opens his eyes to see Phoebe holding three mugs, filled with milk, and a tin canister on a tray.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sandalphon sounds huffy even to himself and Phoebe tilts her head, crosses her arms in thought.

“I thought you’d leave and then I’d have to play a prank on you for revenge.”

She then shoves Sandalphon aside to sit between him and her brother. She musses Morphe’s hair and they’re sister and brother, dreamer and dreamt, a primal beast and its creation, and Sandalphon feels vaguely sick.

They sit in silence like this, two of them lost in thought and one of them lost in dreams, until Phoebe looks at him with a clarity uncommon for her and says, “Do you think you deserve punishment?”

“I won’t take this from an eleven year old.” He tries not to avert his eyes from her gaze. He fails.

“I suppose I could be eleven, but I don’t know how old I _really_ am. I’m not going to grow older. A dreamer who could think of beautiful, innocent impossibilities, nightmarish impossibilities—they decided that could only come from a child.”

She sighs, opens the canister, stirs the chocolate powder from within into her milk, and repeats herself:

“Do you think you deserve punishment? Your current dreams are a reflection of—”

“Don’t talk about it.”

His voice is so hollow that Phoebe doesn’t continue. She hands the mug to Sandalphon. There’s a divot on the rim, from which a hairline crack mars the smooth porcelain image, a faded portrait of an angel with painted gold filigree and red ribbon as a frame.

Lucifer.

Phoebe turns the image away from Sandalphon and pouts at it. “What do I have to do to get my face painted on a mug?”

“For one, not terrorize people.”

“Pot meet kettle.” She giggles, and you would forget that she had tried to keep an island asleep for eternity. A lonely primal beast ending an island and a lonely archangel ending the world. Kettle and pot, indeed. “I’ve always wanted to say that. I’m not that anymore, and neither are you. So drink your milk, Sandy.”

He drinks the chocolate milk.

**Author's Note:**

> me: if i refer to lucifer as Him does that make him sound too much like god  
> friend: yes but that's why you need to do it


End file.
